What Killed You, Sherlock?
by Blankke
Summary: It's been 3 years after the fall and John was ready to give up his life in 221b Baker Street for good. Yet the sudden reappearance of Sherlock changed everything. He had returned altered. Sherlock just wasn't his former self anymore. Not even close.
1. An Unexpected Knock

This is based off a prompt I found on LiveJournal :-D

**Summary of prompt:** Sherlock is broken and traumatized on his return and doesn't want to leave 221B.

***Note on 21/2/2012**- made a few edits on the text*  
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><p>3 years. It's been 3 bloody years and John had finally decided that he would leave this lifeless flat for good. For Christ's sake, he had the right! All those days, weeks, months had left him angry, frustrated. Especially hurt, upset, and empty. And if that wasn't enough, Life had kicked him hard back to square 1 where he transformed back into the man he used to be before Sherlock: boring John, ordinary John, broken John.<p>

With a shaky sigh, the soldier walked down the stairs from his bedroom in the attic and halted suddenly in front of the living room, where he remembered all the moments that he and his flatmate had shared in the place.

Impulsively, John picked up a small item from his trouser's pocket: Sherlock's old phone. Throughout the years, Mrs. Hudson had placed in boxes and stored away Sherlock's possessions, most of these including his science equipment, case files, framed picture of the Periodic Table and whatnot. But John had specifically made sure that the phone hadn't been boxed away and forgotten, because in the end, it was the only memento he really had of the detective, the only one that really mattered.

John shook his head, feeling all depressed again, and walked back to his room to grab whatever coat he saw in front of him.

As he marched down the stairs yet again that morning, he turned the phone on and scrolled through the messages that he had sent to his possibly dead friend.

_Sherlock, where are you?_

_Stop it! Please! Just stop. You're making Mrs. Hudson worry too much. Her condition will get worse… Ok, sod this, now you're making _me_ worry, Sherlock..._

_If you're alive, stop pretending to be dead and come back home, you annoying prick._

_Fine, then come back even if you really are dead._

_Sherlock… I miss you._

The list went on, but so did life. So placing the phone back in his pocket, John grabbed some bread with jam in the kitchen and braced himself for another day of countless hours of social activity.

But that's just when he felt a vibration. _It's coming from the phone. And that just doesn't happen. Ever._

His heart beat faster by the minute, he started to sweat, his eyes started to tear up. Fumbling clumsily with the phone he brightened the scream and read the message:

_Low battery._

His heart sank, but he gulped down his false hope, tears and nervousness. And this was all replaced by acalm feeling that swept over him. He fetched his keys from his other pocket on his trousers and shoved them into the lock.

He was too concentrated on that simple task to see dark-clad figure in front of him as he opened the door.

"John."

The soldier ignored the noise, thinking it was just his imagination playing tricks on him and only really stopped to look when he literally bumped into the stranger when he took his first step outside.

"So sorry, didn't see you- _my god_."

"Hello John."

It was Sherlock Holmes, in the flesh –rather just in the skin. He was worryingly paler than usual, looked half starved, half like a zombie, his clothes were a mess -his scarf was missing, he seemed exhausted, but goddamn it, it was _Sherlock_.

John gulped.

The first thing he felt was anger.

He dropped the keys on the ground and without even thinking about it he clenched his hand tightly into a fist and connected it with Sherlock's left cheek.

The detective stumbled backwards and placed a hand on his injured face while John prepared himself for an attack that never came.

Sherlock didn't seem to have reacted at all.

He just stood there, completely expressionless as if the assault had never happened.

And for some reason, that really bothered John Watson.

So he punched the man again, right in the gut. "Where were you, Sherlock?" He cried aloud, ignoring the pedestrians who stared. "Where the _hell_ have you been? All this time, you were alive! You- you bloody idiot!" He inhaled sharply and exhaled more slowly as he observed the detective double over in pain, not stopping to retaliate in any way.

In a minute, Sherlock regained his composure. "John," He said suddenly, and only now did John notice how weak he sounded. "Let me in." It had seemed more like pleading than an order.

John scoffed in sheer disbelief. "After all you've put me through, you expect me to welcome you in?" He frowned and rubbed his brow. This was crazy. "Won't you even apologize, for pretending to be six feet under?" John, noticing that he was losing it, took another deep breath. At length, the soldier finally spoke up, "Why three years, Sherlock?"

Yet Sherlock did not answer. He stood there, staring at John with those familiar icy blue eyes.

Then the second thing John felt was unexpected relief.

Relief because his best friend was alive, that he had been pretending all along, that he killed Moriarty, and that for now, everything would be ok.

No. That wouldn't be entirely true would it? The third thing John felt that morning was suspicion and sudden realization.

The detective had completely acted unlike himself, John observed. Not talking back, nor smothering him in apologies, barely saying a word, or even a deduction.

Something had happened to Sherlock that had traumatized him. He seemed like a lost 8-year-old who had just found his mum.

John now knew how fragile Sherlock was presently. Shouting wouldn't lead to anything, and he'd already gotten his fair amount of a beating.

_Let's just get him inside._

Gingerly he grabbed the detective by the hand, and led him in the flat, picking up his almost forgotten keys before locking the door behind them.

* * *

><p>When Mrs. Hudson saw Sherlock, she fainted. Well, cried, squealed and then fainted, to be more exact. And when John finally got her to wake up, she'd forced the living consulting detective to bend down so that she could slap him gently on the head for abandoning her, and next covering him in mother-like kisses all around his face.<p>

"Dear god the man's alive! Where've you been, Sherlock? We thought you were dead! There was even a headstone!"

Sherlock didn't say a single word.

"I don't understand anything!" She began to weep all over again. The detective seemed to space out. "You will explain it all young man. Do count on it." She said, wiping her eyes.

John gulped mentally. Smiling to Mrs. Hudson, he excused himself with the guest and led him to the living room upstairs before the landlady could stress herself out any more.

Once there, he sat Sherlock down on the couch by the window while he took the seat opposite. From downstairs, a shaky voice that belonged to Mrs. Hudson promised she'd be back with sweets from the café next door.

John leaded forward on his knees and clasped his hands together under his chin. "So, Sherlock, what happened to you?"

Of course, Sherlock didn't reply. Him acting so off character was starting to scare John.

"Sherlock." He tried to get his attention no avail. "Sherlock, answer me!" This time John raised his voice, but the man didn't even flinch.

John with his patience wearing thin, stood and strode over to the detective, taking Sherlock's hand in his own. "Just answer me, Sherlock," John tried again, "What happened to you?"

Sherlock, finally a bit more responsive looked up and blinked. "I am never leaving your side again, John." He whispered, deep inside his own little world.


	2. Dealing With Life Again

All the boring plans that John had that afternoon dissolved just as quickly as he had decided to make them that morning, which was a blessing, because he now found himself having a better reason to stay at the flat, and that reason was to tend to his best friend.

During that time, John had forced Sherlock to eat something, stuck him in the shower, and lent him some of his clothes, which looked awfully funny and small on the man's tall thin body (John also made a mental note that they'd have to get the detective new clothing).

Now, couple of hours later, after all the babysitting, John had made his way to the living room in the flat, hoping to get some rest.

But Sherlock had followed close behind. And unexpectedly, when John sat, the detective did the same, their legs even rubbing together by the proximity.

"Ok, so who knocked you hard on the head?" John said as he experimented sliding farther away from Sherlock, who in the end always shifted near John.

The soldier sighed at the stagnancy of the conversation and tapped his fingers on the couch's armrest. "Anyways, I think I'll have to tell the others that you're alive." Said he, deciding to change the subjects.

Sherlock shook his head.

John frowned. "What- why?" The detective didn't answer. "Look, I wasn't planning on spreading the news like a wildfire Sherlock, I'm just going outside to call Molly and Lestrade to keep them updated." With that, John stood and inched forward, but stopped suddenly when he felt something grab him.

Sherlock held his arm tightly. "Don't go, please." He muttered, without making eye contact, his face as blank as it could be, yet the tone of his voice betraying him. He sounded almost desperate. "Stay."

John frowned with worry and pried his arm away slowly with care. "It's just a phone call Sherlock, I'll be back." Seeing the detective stand up as well, the man gently pushed him back down. "_You_ stay, Sherlock." With that he smiled at Sherlock reassuringly and walked away, picking up his own phone from his pocket. But as he reached the stairway, out of Sherlock's view, John let himself shudder, feeling weak at the knees.

Sherlock's eyes, he'd never seen them that way before, so dead. _Please Sherlock, don't do this to yourself… Come back to normal, I'll help you. I promise I will._

He immediately composed himself as soon as he saw Mrs. Hudson come inside from the café, the promised sweets in hand.

"Out for a stroll already?" She'd asked him, passing him on the stairs.

John shook his head. "Just a few phone calls is all." He corrected her.

* * *

><p>Seeing John walk away, Sherlock fused his eyebrows together and curled into a ball on the couch, turning his back towards the world.<p>

And even when Mrs. Hudson came in with the food, he didn't bother turning around. He heard her say a few things about what she'd brought him and the weather, but none of it mattered –not that it ever did.

He heard her tell him he seemed tired before she left him alone.

But Sherlock didn't care about anything anymore. He just wanted to be beside John.

* * *

><p>John entered the flat a couple of minutes later and he had a very stressed look on his face.<p>

Stopping at the start of the stairs, he paused for a breather.

When he'd told those Lestrade and Molly the news, each had given him a different reaction.

The Scotland Yard's Detective Inspector had simply denied the idea and told John that it was bullshit. Then John had to dutifully explain to him all that happened –twice in a row- before the tiniest spark of credence had lit up in the man. But that only caused Lestrade to rant about all the cases he had to re-do, all the time he'd spent correcting his mistakes, and everything that he must've kept bottled up for all the years. Then he'd finished saying that he wanted to see Sherlock.

"Please Greg, I hope you believe me when I saw this, but he's a mess. He really just needs a day off. Come by tomorrow." John insisted.

"Ok John, I'll do this favor for you. I might not believe all this entirely yet, but I do trust you. So I'll see you later."

The call was over. That honestly hadn't been so bad. But now it was time to ring the next person, and he wasn't sure he'd be able to say the same for this one.

Dealing with Molly had been a complete contrastive situation. The moment she'd heard that Sherlock was alive she'd turned off the phone. And John actually had to call her a couple of times more until she picked up again. Now this time he had the chance to tell her all the details: Sherlock wasn't himself, he wasn't responding to anything, and he felt that it was necessary to be next to him (John) all the time. John heard Molly gasp when he finished.

"Alright. I- I get it. He wants to be with you."

John blinked as he picked up what she was trying to say. "Molly! I've told you already, I'm not gay." He sighed in annoyance.

"It's ok, John. I'll see you later." The phone call ended.

And that's why it'd been so frustrating to John.

Climbing up the stairs of 221b, Baker Street had never been so hard like this before. It was as if his legs were heavy like led.

It was all because of today; from the moment he woke up to the minute he ended dragging himself upwards.

"Sherlock." He called out. "See? I'm back." Entering the room he saw the detective curled on the sofa with his back towards him. _The typical tantrum position._ John thought with a smirk. Except this time, Sherlock wasn't an angry child, but a sad, traumatized one.

Upon hearing his voice, the detective unfolded himself and sat normally again on the couch.

John helped himself to some untouched strawberry jam pastries on the table before sitting next to Sherlock that was presently staring out into space as if he was in his mind palace.

The soldier looked up and begged God to give him patience because this would be hard, really hard to deal with.

John then turned on the T.V in an attempt to distract himself and his friend, who slowly sat on his heels with his knees pressed onto his chest. It was another familiar pose of his and John tried not to grin, reminding himself that Sherlock was not ok, and that just because a few of his usual habits were returning didn't necessarily mean that he was recovering.

And so, that's how they spent their afternoon, watching crap telly with in total, disturbing silence.

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><p>Later that night, John decided that he should prepare some dinner and Sherlock had followed him into the kitchen.<p>

"Want some pasta too?" John had offered, waiting for the answer. The other only shook his head, but the soldier decided that he would make dinner for him anyways.

Once it was ready, he served small, equal portions for both and set it on the table.

Sherlock had robotically picked up his fork and started to eat, even if he had just declined food. John clenched his fists under the table at this.

"Do you want to talk about it?" John finally asked. He waited. "No? Ok." John was trying to settle back into the life with Sherlock. He really was. And at the same time, he wondered if Sherlock was doing the same effort, or was doing the silent treatment on purpose, maybe even as a punishment to himself. But that seemed highly unlikely.

In the end, John settled with easier questions. "How's the pasta?"

Sherlock ate a bit and swallowed before answering. "Good."

Within a couple of minutes, both men were done. The plates had been washed, John had eventually gone into the shower, and prepared himself for bed, with Sherlock –of course- right at his heels.

"You can go to your room you know? I won't be doing much from here on out."

But Sherlock just stood there, like a statue.

"Sherlock, please, go to sleep, I bet it's been ages since you've slept properly. But don't hesitate to wake me up if you need something, ok?" John yawned, betrayed and frustrated by his own body, feeling the pulling sensation to go lie down and close his eyes. Yet Sherlock still didn't budge. Only when John had bid him good night was when he turned to leave.

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><p>It was half past 3 a.m., and Sherlock couldn't sleep. He fidgeted, tossed and turned, but nothing would make him feel any less agitated than he already was. Finally he simply walked out of his room, tiptoed quietly into the hallway and up the stairs to John's room, where he opened the door as carefully as he could and lied down on the floor next to John's bed, where the man snored quietly.<p>

And Sherlock stayed like that until the moment when he awoke the next morning before John, deciding to leave before the other even had the chance to see how he'd been beside him most of the night.

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><p><strong>*An important note to read before you go away :-P: <strong>I agree with the theory that Molly Hooper helped Sherlock survive the fall. So I just wanted to clarify that when John called to tell her the news about Sherlock, Molly was only pretending to be surprised. I might add though, that specifically for this prompt, I wrote Molly in a way so that it was the _only_ thing she knew. Basically this means that the fact about Sherlock returning as an altered man was something that she genuinely was not expecting.*


	3. Friendly Visits

Sherlock carefully crept over to the living room that morning and sat on John's chair, curling up with his knees pressed to his chest until the soldier woke up. And when John eventually did, he shifted to a more natural –and honestly comfortable- position. All the while, John only stared, still half-asleep with his mouth slightly agape, at the detective, not being able to rationalize why the man wasn't in his own seat. But hey, it was too early to think anyways. He grumbled, scratched his behind and made his way to the kitchen.

"Had breakfast yet?" He yawned, opening the fridge. John actually missed seeing a human limb cooling down between the vegetables. It's been years since he'd seen any fingers or eyeballs. John remembered the feeling of wanting to go out to buy some, just two years after Sherlock's 'death' for the sake of decorating the fridge in the way he had become so accustomed to.

"No."

John couldn't help yawning again when heard the quiet reply from behind him. "Want some?" He turned himself towards the other man.

No answer.

Sighing and shaking his head, John returned his attention to the fridge and slowly exhaled the rest of the sleep off him. He grabbed the milk and decided to chow on some Cheerios today.

When the meal was fully prepared, he grabbed a spoon and walked over to Sherlock, sitting in his chair. John grinned mentally; he was sitting in _Sherlock's_ seat. Moving on, he asked, "How was your first night home?" John chewed on his first spoonful of cereal.

Sherlock shrugged, turning his attention towards the window. The outside light revealed almost unnoticeable dark circles under his eyes.

John wasn't surprised when he saw them since Sherlock had barely slept anyways. "Sherlock, would you please tell me with _words_ how your night was?" John honestly just wanted the man to talk. He'd theorized that the more he made Sherlock open up, the more likely John would figure out what had happened to him that had left him so broken. _Patience John, patience, it's all a matter of time until he's back to normal._

Again, Sherlock shrugged, but thankfully he added 'it was all right' at the end.

John nodded.

Finishing up his breakfast, he suddenly remembered Greg. "Sherlock, uh- Lestrade's coming over today." John heard the man shift in his seat. He included, "It's more over personal reasons than business-related things."

Once again, when he faced Sherlock, the latter shrugged remotely.

John just raised his phone for Sherlock to see. "Just going to make sure about this meeting." Before John left, he said, "And go feed yourself, Sherlock. You look like you're made of twigs, about to snap."

Sherlock breathed deeply, as if he hadn't listened to John.

When the soldier had left the room, the detective was already prepared to migrate to the sofa.

* * *

><p>"Don't be surprised if he ignores you, Greg." John said over the phone, back on the cold entrance of 221b Baker Street.<p>

"Well, according to what you've told me, I'd be more surprised if he replied at all." Lestrade said on the other side of the call.

John wasn't sure if the Detective Inspector had meant that as a joke or as a worried statement. Either way he continued. "Sherlock knows about your visit. So we'll be expecting you whenever you're ready. It's not like we're going to do much today anyways." John said.

"I can sneak out a visit right now if you want. Luckily things have been rather slow this morning."

"Oh, don't risk yourself for us." John chuckled.

He heard Lestrade laugh as well. "I'm doing it for Sherlock. Plus, he's gotten me into enough trouble to last a lifetime." He said, definitely not joking. "Another day added to that won't hurt much."

John nodded. "I apologize on his behalf Greg. Honestly I-"

"It's ok John. At least I managed to keep my job."

"Hmm." The soldier couldn't find the right words to say after that. He changed the subjects. "So we'll see you in a few?"

"Yeah. Cheers."

Then the call ended.

* * *

><p>After John reentered the living room, he saw Sherlock facing the couch again. "Will you do that every time I'm away?" He asked, strangely enjoying being able to sit on his own couch.<p>

Sherlock turned and sat upright, stretching his legs before him.

"Did you eat?" John asked, much like a concerned lonely father over his only sick son.

Sherlock proceeded to show John an empty coffee –or possibly tea- mug and stood suddenly. He walked to his room without a word and came back minutes later, fully dressed.

"For Lestrade?" John raised an eyebrow, tapping his fingers on the armrests.

Sherlock nodded and sat back down on the couch on the end that was closer to John, who turned on the telly while they waited for the DI.

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><p>It took Lestrade around 20 minutes to arrive. But it felt that he had taken much longer. During the wait, Mrs. Hudson had come in to say hello, John had changed his clothes (after realizing he was still in his pajamas) and then the flatmates had watched a boring soap opera on TV.<p>

So when Lestrade finally knocked on the door, John had to double check his watch to make sure it was really only 9:45 in the morning.

John couldn't help smiling a bit. Having a friend over would brighten up the gloomy flat.

Until the moment when he opened the door and saw that Greg Lestrade had company. His smile slid right off.

Right next to the Scotland Yard's DI stood Sally Donovan.

"What's –what're you- Sally?" John stumbled over his words and frowned, on the verge of shooing the woman away.

Lestrade had a sorry look on his face. "She overheard our conversation on the phone."

"Why did you let her come?"

"Sergeant Donovan was very persistent. Don't worry. I've warned her to keep this a secret."

John practically stared daggers at the woman. "And you _will_ keep this secret." It was practically her fault –and Anderson's, that they made Sherlock and him a fugitive that fateful night before the fall.

She raised her eyebrows and scoffed. "Obviously! Greg has practically threatened me with my job over this. Look, I'm on your side now, ok? And I've just come to apologize. Once I've done that, I'll be going back to the Yard. I've got a job to do, you know?"

John was about to retaliate when he realized what she had just done. Sally Donovan had come over to see Sherlock just to say she was _sorry_? At loss over the words to say, John managed, "Um, thank you. Sherlock would uh- appreciate that."

She nodded, trying to keep on a serious face. Well, maybe Sally was torturing her pride today, but she was doing the right thing.

"Does anyone else know?" John turned to Lestrade again.

The Detective Inspector motioned with his head, "Only her for now."

The soldier stepped aside and asked them to come in. Then he whispered, "Remember. We've got to spread the news very slowly-"

"John, I know."

"It's just us for now." Sally jumped in.

John nodded and walked up the stairs, the two following close behind.

When both saw Sherlock sitting on the couch, they went pale.

But the detective only stared back without a single emotion visible, even when he noticed that Donovan was in the same room.

She was the one that started to speak first. "Sherlock- um, I-" Lestrade had probably warned her about the unresponsiveness, yet she still seemed a little shocked. "I'm sorry for doubting you the way I did." Her answer seemed rushed and rehearsed. "And I'm pleased to see that you are alive." Sally Donovan nodded. "Yeah, that was it. See you at work one day, freak."

John bit his lower lip and swore he would've punched her if only he hadn't heard her snivel quietly while making her way downstairs. John sighed and checked on Sherlock. As expected there hadn't been any reactions. Just him sitting down, still staring at where Donovan was, as silent could be.

It was Lestrade's turn now. He eyed the floor to find something to say. He began with, "So you're alive after all, huh?"

Sherlock began to tap his fingers on the armrest, appearing to be paying attention.

John asked Lestrade to take a seat, which he did –on John's couch.

The Detective Inspector continued. "Have you been doing much? During the years, I mean?"

Sherlock stopped tapping, shrugged and continued.

Lestrade smirked. He looked at John in a way that said: I got him to respond! John, in turn, smiled. _Good, we're making some progress then._

* * *

><p>The almost one-sided conversation ended fairly well. Lestrade had managed successfully to extract some minor responses from the consulting detective during his visit, leaving him rather happy. John hadn't said much throughout the visit. This time had been reserved especially for the DI to catch up with his detective.<p>

"That's all the time I have for now, chaps." Said Lestrade after checking his watch at one point. He stood to leave and John followed to show the man to the door. "I'd better check on Sergeant Donovan. You all heard her sniffs, didn't you? Anyways, I'll drop by again one day to give you some cases to work on, Sherlock."

The detective nodded once, visually looking bored and uninterested, and watched them disappear into the hallway.

When the two men reached the door, Lestrade frowned with worry, his previous cheerful mood apparently gone.

"Sherlock's worse off then I thought." He told John, who nodded. Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder as a friendly gesture. "I know he'll come to. He needs time to get used to this life again, I bet." John smiled.

"Thank you for taking some of your time to come visit, Greg. I'm genuinely grateful for it." He chuckled. "And I'm sure he was happy that you visited, although I can't say the thing for Donovan."

"Like I said, the woman's persistent." Greg's cell began to ring. "This is my cue. Duty calls, literally."

The men shared a few more laughs and chuckled before exchanging goodbyes.

This was becoming an exercise now. Walking up and down the stairs.

Maybe if Sherlock got some fresh air, it'd do him some good. Yes. That was a good idea.

Perhaps if we went out tomorrow, I wonder if he'd enjoy it… John speculated, making it to the top of the stairs and almost tripping over the last step.


	4. He Needs You

"_Watson, Watson, can you hear me? John!" _

"_Somebody's hit!"_

"_Get 'im out of here!"_

"_Agh! God! This- agh! It hurts!" Clutching his shoulder tightly, John collapsed to the ground. _

_He was losing a lot of blood and consequently what followed was an unwelcomed feeling of confusion and lightheadedness. _

_Not only that, there was way too much noise around, too many people screaming, shooting and dying all at once. _

"_Be quiet." John told them while face down on the blood soaked earth. Without any hope left, he lay there, awaiting his certain death. _

_But suddenly a pair of hands grabbed him and lifted him up, helping him out of the front line._

_And as John looked up, his face contorted with horror, "Sh- Sherlock? What're you doing here?_

_Sherlock, who seemed oddly pale, muttered some incoherent words in reply. The detective-turned-soldier seemed as if he was making an effort to say something important, but even as he tried, nothing that came out of him made any sense. _

_John eyed his friend more closely now and he immediately understood the reason. _

_Sherlock was also in critical condition, in fact, much worse than John. _

_On the middle of Sherlock's chest was an empty, gaping hole the size of a fist where his heart was supposed to be, and what was most sickening was that John could see the other side from it._

_He felt nauseous. John's vision began to fade away and soon everything was pitch black._

...

John awoke with a start. His shirt was wet and sticky from sweat and his heart rate was uncontrollable. Gasping for breath, he looked frantically around his room for any signs of imminent danger but it was still too dark, and nothing seemed out of place.

"It was just a dream John, just a dream." He reminded himself repeatedly, placing a hand over his scar, rubbing his thumb over it and staring unblinkingly at the ceiling.

After a moment, he closed his eyes and tried to relax again, but an unexpected snore sounded from underneath him, ruining his plans.

Jumping with surprise, John covered his mouth and rolled over to the edge of the bed to see what was wrong. All the while, he couldn't help remembering the big black dog from his case with Sherlock back in Baskerville, and deeply hoped it wasn't anything like it.

Though he would've never guessed what he saw next.

"Sherlock-" John whispered in shock.

The detective lay sideways on the floor, resting his head on his crumpled up makeshift pillow –his arm, facing John. He breathed slowly and deep and seemed very uncomfortable on John's wooden floor. Yet, he was still there.

In the next 20 minutes, the soldier simply sat himself up and stared intently at his flat mate, scarcely being able to fathom the incident.

At last, John made a decision that he deemed most logical. It would be best to wake up Sherlock. He shifted carefully on his bed worried he'd make too much noise and rouse the detective before he got to him.

Luckily all went as planned. He crawled out of the bed, kneeled beside his friend and reached out to touch his shoulder. When he did so, he heard his friend mutter.

It'd been unintelligible things, just like in the dream, and John even caught himself hoping he wouldn't find a hole in Sherlock.

He didn't. What happened next was almost expected: the detective opened his eyes, sat up and lazily apologized.

At this point, John was beyond apologies and shushed him. "Wake me up next time, Sherlock." He rubbed his sleepiness off as he made his way to turn the lights on, blinking furiously once the room was lit up and agonizingly bright. "I could've shared the bed you know?" He added when he saw the man's eyes lower in an almost dejected manner.

John opened his door. "Right, off you go to bed now. We've got a long day tomorrow."

Yet Sherlock didn't budge. He remained in his statuesque manner where he was. John noticed suddenly how strangely normal he looked presently, with black curled hair a complete mess, John's pajamas too small for his tall body therefore displaying his two sticks of a leg, and a tired slouch. He couldn't contain a smile.

But the brief happiness disappeared the moment the truth dawned on him. "You are going to stay _here_, aren't you?"

Sherlock gave a single nod and John sighed. He turned off the lights and closed the door, clearing his throat at the unbelievable amount of awkwardness that this situation was releasing.

Sherlock was not himself, he was vulnerable and John was making an effort to understand this fact. He needed support, and the only one the detective trusted was the soldier; he needed John to be there for him.

So for the first time in his life, John crawled onto his bed and expected the other man to follow his example.

But he only heard the man lie back down on the floor.

"Uh- Sherlock," He began, turning to face the flat mate. "You can sleep up here if you want. "

The other, after a while breathed deeply, pulled up the bed sheets and carefully climbed inside. John, daring himself not to turn to look, heard Sherlock shift quietly to the edge of the bed once he was in. They had their back turned towards each other, since each was trying to give the other the most space possible.

It wasn't until early in the morning the next day that both men woke up to be sprawled on top of one another.

* * *

><p>Short filler-ish chapter! Just to keep myself writing and to update to the story ;-)<p>

P.S. I apologize for the shortness :-(

I'm really tired due to my afterschool (and school) schedule and this is all I could muster today.


	5. A Day Outside

**Notes before reading:** Finally! It's finally here! A new chapter :-D I'm sorry for my terribly update timing. I haven't found the time to sit down and type this up. Also, I apologize if this seems a bit messy or rushed in any way :-I

* * *

><p>It had been four days since John and Sherlock's strange event of sharing a bed.<p>

Those days had carried on like they usually did: John would let Sherlock sleep in his bed at night and every time he left, he knew Sherlock would curl up in a corner. Many of his spontaneous habits were much different than now; he wouldn't even play the bloody violin anymore! But what affected John the most was that the detective had become a _zombie_, unresponsive to life, an emptied out shell of the man he used to be.

And not even when Molly Hooper had arranged with John to visit them on the fourth day had things looked a little better.

She'd burst into tears at the sight of Sherlock and had hugged him, making sure to hold herself back in order not to kiss him all over. Then she'd asked how he'd been and how was life during the three years –unsuccessfully trying to get an answer of out the consulting detective.

In the end, she'd left the same way she arrived, crying, but hid the feelings well while saying goodbye to the flat mates. John noticed then that he wasn't the only one so deeply affected by Sherlock's attitude. It wasn't his fault, nor was it hers. John sighed.

It was there when he noticed that even after all this time, things hadn't changed for the better with either of them, especially himself, who felt completely disheartened with the fact that the detective barely showed any signs of recovery.

And that had really gotten on John's nerves. So much, that one day he decided his recovery techniques needed to change to something with more _impact_.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock," John began that next day, sitting in the living room across from his friend, "we have to get you outside."<p>

"No." The other man tapped his fingers unenthusiastically on the armrests.

"You need some sun and fresh air." John insisted.

Sherlock shook his head, avoiding John's eyes.

The soldier in return sighed and stood. "Well then, you give me no choice." John grabbed the detective's arms, forcing the man to stand. "Up you go." But as soon as Sherlock was on his feet, he sat himself back on the couch stubbornly, not a slight expression available on his face.

John didn't give up. Twice more he repeated the procedure, and on the last time, he made sure he didn't let go of Sherlock, who finally acquiesced.

And as they marched down the stairway, they passed Mrs. Hudson who had just entered the flat.

"Both of you are out already?" She said affably, eyeing the men up and down.

"Oh yes." John said with confidence. "He needs some air." John stated.

Sherlock protested lazily against the soldier's grasp when he'd said it, but John only made sure to grip a little tighter.

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "I suppose a little bit of the outside world wouldn't hurt anyone. I mean, especially since Sherlock's been locked up like an animal for so long. Do take advantage of the weather today, you two. It's so beautiful, the sky's so blue." She smiled, sounding much like a mother telling her sons to go out and play while holding the door open for them.

John nodded on the way out with Sherlock following unwillingly behind onto the streets of London.

Out on the streets, everything seemed terribly fine. Mrs. Hudson was right. The day was fine.

Yet unlike the perfection of the outside world, something happened that John hadn't been expecting at all, something stranger than their nights together.

All throughout the walk, Sherlock seemed completely overtaken by paranoia. When a car honked suddenly, Sherlock jumped, when someone passed by, he cowered closer to John, if they had to cross the road, he walked so near his flat mate the latter thought more than once that he might trip.

Eventually, as if it couldn't get any worse, the soldier felt a hand grab his own tightly.

With a moment of realization, he turned to the detective. "Do we really have to hold hands?" One frightened look from Sherlock's face was all it took for them to stroll the rest of the way in that manner.

Upon entering the desired –nearest- clothing store (McCarthy's Clothes, it was called), John and Sherlock received enough odd, cold stares to last the whole year.

The soldier tried his best to ignore the people who were beginning to whisper, reminding himself that Sherlock's present state was more important than John's… well… future reputation. His embarrassment was hidden by a pretense that he didn't mind his situation.

He turned to the detective, who looked at everyone through dead eyes.

A flashback of Sherlock lying apparently dead on the pavement that horrible day ran through his mind. It gave him a small headache afterwards. His eyes, Sherlock's eyes, they were the same since then and now.

John quickly deleted the thought from his mind and turned to his friend, who was still grabbing his hand. "Choose what you want Sherlock."

The detective nodded, and walked around, letting go of John momentarily just to pick up some shirts and pants of his size.

One of the store clerks, a young man, had approached them hesitantly. He'd been one of the people who saw the two come in. "Welcome to McCarthy's Clothes, do you need any help? Feel the need to try something? Doors are right back there on the left." He offered robotically in his best sounding voice.

John shook his head. "We're all right. Thanks uh-" he quickly read the boy's name tag. "Matt." He fumed mentally after the bloke left. _Bloody ignorant idiots_. He couldn't help thinking with contempt towards everyone who'd eyed them. _If only they knew everything that happened to Sherlock._

Dismissing the feelings, John moved on to more important things. He walked after Sherlock all around the store and found some fairly nice things for the detective to wear, which were in his preferred colors, that is, mostly purple and black.

Similar to his behavior in the streets, in the store Sherlock would avoid the spaces that already had a stranger near, which meant that he and John would need to return later to fetch his clothing item.

Around three hours later, before they left, John had wanted to give Sherlock a gift. He had picked a coat that was similar to the detective's old one, likewise with a scarf, which was blue. Although it was a bit lighter than the original piece, it would have to do.

John paid for Sherlock. He had to. The man hadn't any money left (or at least acted as if he hadn't any). Yet to his luck, the things in McCarthy's Clothes were either cheap or with a discount, so John took advantage of that.

They left with three big bags. Sherlock carried two and John carried the remaining one.

The walk back was just as aggravating as the one to go to the store. Through the journey Sherlock dropped his bags twice out of fright due to a honking car and a jogging stranger.

It only made him run near John to catch up with him, only not grabbing his hand because both of his were already occupied. And never had it felt like a bigger relief to finally return home.

* * *

><p>"That was er- quite interesting." John cleared his throat as he dropped his bags in Sherlock's room.<p>

The other man said nothing in reply.

The silence in his room was great.

Until John heard a familiar erotic text alert, then he saw Sherlock's eyes widen in surprise and anxiety.

John titled his head, completely shocked. "Since when do you have a phone that works?" He checked his pocket just to make sure the consulting detective hadn't pick-pocketed him. No, his was there with him.

So who was texting Sherlock?

"What's going on?" John frowned.

"Mycroft." Sherlock answered monotonously.

"You've been texting your brother? All this time?" John snapped, not being able to stop himself from feeling a bit betrayed.

There wasn't any answer from the other man, which only raised John's suspicions.

"What? So now you'll tell me you've only been pretending to be an "altered" man? Congratulations, Sherlock. You've managed to confuse the hell out of me."

No, Sherlock hadn't changed. He remained physically the same as he had the whole week. Expressionless.

"John-"

"What?" He said harshly.

"It's time you know… the truth."


	6. The Truth

**The final chapter! This has been very fun and challenging to write! But I still hope you guys enjoyed it ;-)**

**Cheers! hahaha**

* * *

><p>"Please." John scoffed, in complete bafflement, furrowing his brows tightly together. "Go ahead."<p>

"John, I believe you may want to sit down for this." Sherlock offered his desk's chair and closed the door to his room. He quickly made his way back to John, who seemed vexed.

"Ok…" John accepted the offer and made himself as comfortable as he could. Suddenly he realized, "Hold on a minute. What of Mrs. Hudson?"

Sherlock cocked his head, "What about her?"

"Shouldn't she know too?"

"You can tell her later." There was a tone of disturbance in his voice. "I want you to know first."

The soldier nodded with apprehension and uncertainty and tapped his thumbs expectantly on the desk, which for a while had been barren of all of Sherlock's materials and possessions. "Well?" He said eventually, running his fingers along the smooth wooden surface.

But all that followed was an unnerving silence that flooded the room before either of them had a chance to do anything about it. And John even felt himself choke on the thick coating of quietness. He shifted uneasily on the chair. "So what is it? The truth?" He replied, unintentionally sounding too desperate.

Sherlock blinked and stood straight before John like the tall, stick-like statue that he had become and cleared his throat. "Oh yes, of course." Sherlock seemed jittery with anxiety. "John, I have a problem."

The soldier raised an eyebrow dubiously. "What do you mean-"

"Just listen. Please."

John gulped his next words down. He waited.

And waited.

"Sherlock." John began. "What is the problem?" He insisted. The suspicion was burning him from the inside out, and the longer Sherlock took to verbalize the facts, the more he caught himself jumping to his own conclusions. _What if he became a murderer? What if someone's after him? What if he's faking this all?_

_What if?_

John's thoughts were interrupted as he saw Sherlock twiddle his fingers, staring down at his shoes, trying to avoid direct eye contact with his flat mate. He also caught sight of his friend's chest rise and fall with deep breathing. Soon his own breathing matched Sherlock's in their fight for air and general calmness alike in that stifling room. "Tell me what's going on." John stood up with impatience.

"Don't!" Sherlock barked abruptly. The soldier caught his breath.

"Sherlock-"

"Sit, John. Please." Sherlock begged. He was shaking a little.

But John, stubborn as he could be, didn't budge. "Tell me what's going on! Or I will leave." He repeated angrily with more authority, and turned towards the door.

Sherlock swallowed down his nervousness and composed himself.

The phone in the detective's pocket started to moan again, but he just picked it out and threw the object onto the bed.

"Stay John. I- I'll start from the beginning." But he didn't sound very assuring; it was more as if the detective was trying to evade a deadly subject. And after some struggle, Sherlock started.

He slowly explained everything to John. He informed his friend of how he'd managed to survive the fall with both Mycroft and Molly Hooper's help*.

John grew paler, "Wait- so they knew all along?"

"Yes."

This sudden awareness stabbed the soldier with an imaginary, sharp dagger, making sure to twist itself around once it had pierced the flesh.

But it also made John understand why both Molly and Mycroft had acted the way they did, especially during the fragile, casual talks regarding Sherlock.

He remembered a couple of times in the past such as ones where Sherlock's older brother had coldly told John to let Sherlock go because he was 'dead', or when John had tried to evade another awkward conversation with Molly Hooper just because it always led back to the detective.

Sherlock, unaware that John had been temporarily lost in thought, continued. He told his flat mate of Moriarty's assassins. "Obviously it didn't take them very long to realize that their employer had died. Therefore, most fled the country."

John snapped back to reality at the mention of the word 'most'. "What do you mean by this? Why didn't they all leave?"

Sherlock frowned as if trying to remember. "There was one that remained, Moriarty's closest ally, considered the second most dangerous man in London: Sebastian Moran. He stayed behind to either kill you or me. For revenge that is." The detective paused and shifted from leg to the other. "A year had passed before I finally found him. Moran had located himself in the undergrounds of London, and if it weren't for the homeless network, I wouldn't have had the opportunity to meet him face to face. It had been a tough battle of fists and wits. I won, of course. He's now in prison and will remain there for God knows how many years."

_So there's still a bit of arrogance left in this broken man._ John smirked internally. "Didn't the police recognize you when you brought him in?" He said suddenly, logic catching up with him.

"Oh no. I asked one of the homeless people to do it for me." Sherlock leaned on the walls with his nervous hands placed in his pockets. "With that out of the way it had been necessary to keep a low profile."

"But why didn't you come back home earlier? Why wait three years?" John's voice came out a little more high-pitched and upset than he intended them to be. But then again, his emotions were all over the place. "Why did you come back so different? Is this your idea of a sick joke?"

"No John, it was all to protect you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade- everyone that I knew who could be in potential danger." Sherlock's tone changed from neutrality to fear. "And something _did_ happen. Something that changed everything."

There was finally a crack in that porcelain face of his.

John was breathing heavy by now. Out of all his mixed feelings, apprehension jumped out at him the most. "For the love of God! Just tell me what's happening-"

His friend cleared his throat. "I don't think I should anymore."

Ok. That had been the last straw. "Sherlock!"

No more waiting, and definitely no more guessing. This _had_ to be it. The moment for such a long awaited and desired truth.

John stood up and made his way Sherlock and grabbed him by the collar roughly. "Tell me!" He ordered in his best military-sounding voice.

About 10 seconds of silence, and some noises on the streets outside, Sherlock opened his mouth and let his guilty words spill out freely.

"I developed schizophrenia John."

Another invisible stab and John staggered backwards in shock, slowly prying his fingers away from the other man's shirt. "You _what_?" His voice cracked at the end.

Sherlock let out a shaky breath. "It started 2 years after my fake death." He took his hands out of his pants pockets and crossed all their fingers together like a group hug between friends. "Of course, Mycroft discovered and forced me to see a doctor." Sherlock blinked multiple times since his eyes were reddening. "They said it wasn't genetic and that it was just caused by my brain's structure. It was inevitably going to happen at some point." He shrugged dejectedly.

"Sherlock, this- this is serious! Why in the world didn't you tell me sooner?" John's inner doctor surfaced. He neared Sherlock again. "We have to get you to the hospital immediately!"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Jesus- don't be an idiot! This _disease_ could potentially drive you insane, Sherlock!" Spit flew out of John's mouth like lost little bullets trying to reach their target and failing midway.

"It already has." Sherlock murmured, pulling his hands apart and putting his fingertips on the sides of his head and massaging it in circular motions. "I can't separate thoughts and feelings from reality anymore. The voices- they never shut up! And the hallucinations-" He began to panic and breath quickly. "I don't know what to do John! My body's betraying me again. I'm losing myself." By now he was sniffing. "It gets worse and worse-"

John visualized the emotionless stone that Sherlock became explode into a million pieces, revealing inside a scared, small boy who just needed a hug.

And a hug he did receive. John was beside Sherlock in a matter of milliseconds and led the weeping man over to his bed, where they sat together for many minutes.

* * *

><p>Sherlock eventually leaned his head on John's shoulder.<p>

"Hey, it's going to be alright. I'm a doctor remember?" John tried to say with a light, carefree tone.

"You had bad days." Sherlock muttered quietly, still sniffing.

_Yeah, I did. _"Don't worry." John said as he brushed a few dark curls off the detective's face with his free hand. "I'm right here."

Sherlock then searched for John's hand and gave it a squeeze. "Yes, you are." He convinced himself and breathed deeply. "I'm scared John."

"I know you are. But I'll take care of you."

The consulting detective nodded weakly.

Both knew now that life would never be the same, and would be much harder.

Yet they knew they would manage, because they were Sherlock Holmes and John Watson right?

With that thought stuck in his mind, John lied down on the bed, legs dangling off the edge.

Sherlock followed his example.

And together, they held hands and drowned in the silence.

* * *

><p>So what exactly happened to you, Sherlock?<p>

This is finally an issue that I've started to understand a little.

_Because now I know that in the end, _

_You killed yourself, Sherlock._

* * *

><p>*Did not want to go into details as to how Sherlock survived the fall… Because honestly, I have no idea how he did it.<p> 


End file.
